Morning saw clearly that she stood like a stretched wing between her brother’s little soul and the world. She could be brave in sheltering Charley. The boy was really alive. He ate and answered and listened and lived, the show ahead.... In the midst of it, Morning awoke to the fact that he was having a good time; and here was the mystery—with the last two people in New York he would have chosen; a two, his whole life-business had taught him to employ thoughtlessly, as other metropolitan adjuncts—pavements, elevators, messengers. Here was life in all its terror and complication, the same struggles he had known; yet he had always seen himself as a sort of Titan alone in the great destroying elements. The joke was on him.
Charley left them for just a moment. The sister said, as if thinking aloud:
“... And yet, he cries every morning because he has to go to the office. Oh, he wouldn’t go there without me——”
A world of meaning in that. They were sitting in the dark of the Charity Union play-house, with Charley between them. The aims and auspices of the performance were still indefinite to Morning, who had not ceased to grapple with his joke—the seriousness with which he had habitually regarded John Morning, his house, his play, his unhealed wound, his moral debility....
For fifteen minutes a giant had marvelously manhandled his companion. The curtain dropped an instant, and in the place where the giant had performed now stood a ’cello and a chair.... She came on like the wraith of an angel—and sat down and played.... How long she played Morning never knew, but somewhere in it he caught his breath as one who had come back to life.... And then she was gone. The audience was mildly applauding. He turned to the sister leaning on the knees of the boy:
“I know her. She is very dear to me. If you don’t mind, I’ll leave you now. You are safe with Charley—and some time again I’ll come. I thank you very much. I really want to do this again—we three——”
Even though his own joy was bewildering, he saw the sudden happiness of Charley’s sister, who, in spite of all, had been haunted by the dread of the afterward. Now that was gone from her. Relief was in her face. It was all so much better than she had dared to hope. He had wanted nothing—except to be kind—and now he was going. She gave her hand impulsively.... Charley did, too, and was ordered to call a carriage for his sister if he wished; at all events, the means was attended.... Then they saw him making his way forward—putting money into the hands of ushers, and inquiring the way to the stage.... And she was there, playing again.
4
She was making the people like her. Her effect was gradual. They had been held by more obvious displays. The instrument seemed very big for her, but the people liked her all the better for this.... He could not be one with the audience, but the old watching literary eye—the third eye—caught the sense of the people’s growing delight. She made them feel that she belonged to them; as if she said:
“I have come back to you. I will do just what you ask. Everything I have is yours——”